


Night Out

by PericulaLudus



Series: You Were Always My King [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking, Dwalin & Thorin Oakenshield Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Mystery, Poison, Poisoning, Protective Dwalin, Thorin Feels, Thorin POV, Thorin whump, Thorin-centric, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:19:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4005661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their way home after signing a beneficial trade agreement, Thorin and Dwalin spend the night in a town of Men. As Dwalin's snores make sleeping impossible, Thorin decides to go for a nightcap in the pub across the road. A decision he would come to regret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meysun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meysun/gifts).



Dwalin was snoring.

It was not the heavy breathing, the gentle rumbling, or the slight whistling that were quite ordinary in any camp. Dwalin’s snores might well have qualified as a work of art if there had been anyone to appreciate such craftsmanship. His snores were an earthquake, a thunder in the deep, shaking the very foundations of the mountain, and they made it completely impossible to fall asleep.

Thorin sighed. He contemplated throwing something at his traveling companion, preferably the sweaty undergarments he had worn for the past days of hard riding. He decided against it. Dwalin needed his sleep. It had been a long journey and an exhausting one, though the success of their mission had more than made up for the inconvenience of traveling in the pouring rain for several days. Thorin sat up. Falling asleep was a struggle for him at the best of times, but it was utterly impossible with this noise, which was a real shame because the beds in this inn were comfortable and the warm duvets were a luxury they had not experienced for many weeks.

Dwalin did not even stir when Thorin sat up, but continued his thunderous snoring. He was stretched out on his back, somehow managing to take up most of the man-sized bed, his tattooed hands folded on his chest. Thorin always marveled at his friend’s ability to sleep in any place and at any time. Dwalin was usually asleep by the time his head hit his bedroll, but he woke up just as quickly at the slight disturbance and was ready to fight in a heartbeat. That ability had served them well in the past, but as soon as they were resting somewhere safe, Dwalin was the heaviest sleeper Thorin had ever seen. Even Fíli and Kíli were usually unable to wake him, and those little terrors sure made a lot of noise. Thorin smiled, thinking about his nephews; two more days until he would see them again.

With a sigh, Thorin reached for his trousers. He wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep any time soon, so he might as well go out for a little nightcap. In their haste to get home, they had not made time for a celebration of their successful journey so far. Thorin was not a big drinker, but he fancied a quick swallow just now. Just one drink, they had a bit of a journey ahead of them yet. There was a public house just across the street and he knew from experience that the landlord distilled a decent whisky. He laced up his boots and threw on his coat. Dwalin was still sound asleep when Thorin closed the door behind himself. The snores followed him all the way down the external staircase. The night air was crisp, and the town was brightly lit by the nearly-full moon. Of course the rain had finally stopped tonight just when they had spent some money to have a roof above their heads. After several days and nights in the rain, their clothes were spread out all over their room to hopefully dry before they set out again the next morning.

Laughter and drunken song wafted out of the common room. It sounded like quite a raucous crowd in there, particularly for an ordinary weeknight. Of course they all turned and stared when Thorin walked in. He nodded curtly and stood as tall as he possibly could. He was not one to be easily intimidated and was well used to attracting attention. He strode straight through the crowd towards the bar and slapped a coin onto the polished wood. The buxom blonde who had just handed two pints of dark stout to some rugged-looking Men to his right looked down at him critically, making him instantly swallow any polite greeting he might have uttered. Men were just so prejudiced.

He brusquely ordered a double measure of malt and looked around the room while she poured it. There were various small groups sat around the many mismatched tables. The singing came from the largest of them, a dozen or so who looked like farmers from one of the outlying villages. They were obviously inebriated, but seemed to be enjoying themselves and had already turned their attention back to their drinks. In a dark corner said three Men in the utilitarian clothing of the Rangers. Formidable in a fight, but usually happy to keep to themselves as long as they were not provoked, they should not pose a risk. There were a few shady-looking characters among the punters, some heavily armed, but most were sitting in pairs or threes and Thorin knew he could handle three of them at once if he had to.

The barmaid took extraordinarily long to pour him his drink and he wondered idly if she was stretching the whisky with water. When she finally put the dram in front of him, she had the audacity to bite his coin. He snarled at her, causing the other patrons at the bar to reach for their weapons. Thorin’s hand flew to his dagger, nearly toppling his glass. The serving wench nodded her head and the Men relaxed. Thorin slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket. The guy next to him had stabilized his glass and slid it back over to him with a smile. Thorin grumbled his thanks, clutched his drink and made his way towards an empty table on the far wall. Around a table in the centre of the room sat four disheveled looking travelers. One of them got up to get their next round and ran straight into Thorin. Thorin had the distinct advantage of being both sober and a Dwarf who was rather firmly rooted to the ground, so it was the Man who stumbled and desperately clutched his arm to try and steady himself. His filthy fingers very nearly landed in Thorin’s treasured drink. Thorin snarled again.

Finally he reached the empty table and sat down with his back towards the wall, keeping an eye on the other punters. While Dwalin had spent enough decades as a guard to have eyes at the back of his head, Thorin was not so blessed and preferred to face the room. He took an appreciative sniff of the amber liquid in his glass. The smell was concentrated and forceful, a mixture of aromatic smoke, something like antique copper, and a sweeter note almost like Dís’ dark plum jam.

He took a first small sip and swirled it around in his mouth, wanting to get the most out of the intense flavor. Fiery gingerbread mixed with sweet vanilla, fresh berries and the slightest hint of cinnamon, it was a complex whisky indeed, but that was how Thorin liked it best. There was a trace of salt that he did not remember, but then again it had been quite a while since he had last tasted this particular spirit. The intense spiciness lingered on the palate. This special drink was still as fiery as ever. Just perfect on a night such as this.

Thorin sipped his drink slowly, often just wetting his tongue, and found himself increasingly relaxing in the warmth of the common room. It was not a bad pub after all, though some of the punters might be a bit questionable. Soon he found himself tapping along with the music. Their tunes were lively enough, though of course not as good as dwarven songs, but that could not be helped. He caught the one or the other glance from the Men around him, but it did not worry him. Let them come if they wanted to start trouble, let them come and let them slink away with broken noses and slashed fingers. Thorin knew how to take care of himself.

He should probably go back to their room soon. It would certainly only be the one drink tonight, larger celebrations could wait for when he had returned to his own halls. Besides, getting drunk was not just safer, but also a lot more fun when Dwalin was with him. Alas, Dwalin was only disturbing the peace with his snoring tonight, not with any drunken antics. Thorin wasn’t complaining; he was enjoying himself just fine right now.

He was certainly starting to feel sleepy now, not helped by the slow lament the fiddler was currently playing. Thorin did not know the tune, but it sounded mournful and wasn’t really one that you’d clap along with. His eyes wanted to close on their own account. It had been a long journey with very little sleep due to both the unfavourable weather and the dangerous territory they had traversed. It had indeed been a very tiring time. Bedtime had probably come, he definitely felt drowsy enough by now to even sleep through Dwalin’s snores, but he would finish his drink before going to bed. He reached out for his glass, but only managed to grasp it on his third attempt. He must be tired indeed or else the drink was a lot more potent than he remembered!

Thorin drained his whisky and leaned back in his chair. He probably should have had more food tonight; it was a bit embarrassing that one glass of spirit was having an effect on him. Good thing that Dwalin had not accompanied him, or he’d never live to hear the end of it. Not everyone could have the alcohol tolerance of an ox. He was feeling quite nauseous now. Maybe it had been the food, maybe something had gone off, he tried to console himself, but really he knew that it hadn’t been the food. Goodness, he wasn’t some prissy Elf; he should be able to hold his liquor a bit better than this. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the rough stone wall. Deep breaths... His stomach was roiling. Deep, slow breaths... He was not going to be sick in a tavern like some unbearded stripling. He was fine, he was a fully-grown Dwarf, a son of Durin, and he wasn’t going to be sick because of one measly whisky. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, slow and controlled. He was fine.

When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t fine. There were black spots dancing in front of his eyes and his field of vision seemed to narrow. What he could see were eyes, so many eyes staring at him, all these Men staring at him, their voices oddly distorted, echoing in his head. Everything seemed too bright and very dim at the same time. His vision swam and he closed his eyes again to gather his thoughts. He should not close his eyes, not here, surrounded by all of these strangers, but keeping his eyes open was no better. He needed to keep an eye on these Men, but when he tried, the whole room was swaying and every movement seemed to occur oh so slowly, as if they were all struggling through high water. He wasn’t fine; he couldn’t fool himself into thinking that any more. He was far from fine and he was in a seedy inn in a desolate town of Men. He was far from fine and he was all alone in a seedy inn full of Men.

He forced his eyes wide open and tried in vain to focus his vision. There were faces, so many faces, and they were all leering at him, huge mouths grinning down at him, wild animals ready to attack. He had to get out of here, away from these Men. He had to... somehow... but his body did not want to... his body was so heavy, so slow, much like his thoughts. He had to focus; he had to remove himself from this situation. The Men were mostly in pairs or threes, not a danger, not usually, but he was in no state to fight just now. They had all seen that he had gold. He should have paid with copper, but they always thought that Dwarves had gold anyways, not knowing that those from the Ered Luin rarely did, not unless they were returning from some very successful trade negotiations. Oh Mahal, what if somebody robbed him? They needed the gold, needed to purchase food for the coming winter. There had been so many lean winters; so many years when he had watched Dwarves die because he could not provide for his people. Not this year! This winter would be different, this winter they would have plenty to eat, because this winter they had gold and he would not let any long-legged low-life take even the few coins he carried just now.

With that resolve, Thorin gritted his teeth and stood up. He had to grab a hold of the table, as the entire room seemed to tilt in front of him. This should not be such an effort, but he could feel sweat beading on his forehead now. This should not be so difficult, he was merely standing up, he wasn’t fighting an exhausting battle, and he was not working in a sweltering forge. This should not be so difficult, but for some reason it was.

He had to get out of the pub, away from all of these Men. They were all looking at him now with their strange, distorted faces. He took a few staggering steps towards the door, then crashed into a table. A hand reached out to steady him, a voice said something that he could not understand over the ringing in his ears, and somewhere far away there was laughter. He had to get out of here. He staggered onwards. There were hands reaching out for him, for his gold, for the lives of his people. Hands and faces everywhere. He kept going even though it felt like he was caught in quicksand. Keep moving, get to the door, and get out of here. He hit the doorframe on his first attempt, but then he found the door and made it out.

Air. Cool night air hit his face and it felt great, it felt... he needed to breathe, he needed to get this cool air into his lungs, into his brain, but he could not draw breath. He ripped his coat open and gasped for air. Air, blessed cool air. It cleared his foggy mind a little. What had happened? He could not remember ever feeling like this, not even when he had been very drunk indeed. He noticed that his hands were shaking. He could see it, but he could not feel his hands, it was like he was watching somebody else’s hands, somebody who was in a very bad state indeed. He had only had one drink, he was not drunk, but he was... he was something... he was not right... somehow something had gone wrong...

The door opened again and he knew he had to get away from here.

“Oi, Master Dwarf, in such a hurry to leave?”

“Without even saying goodbye, we should teach you some manners!”

“Had a few too many, now, did you?”

Men, three of them, Men that were following him and he was in no state to confront them. He needed to... get away, he needed to somehow get away from them. They were not safe, not at all, they were a danger, somehow, they wanted something and his confused mind could not gather what it might be. He needed to... be safe... how could he be safe? He wasn’t safe here, he wasn’t safe at all. He needed to be safe, but he was in a town of Men and he was alone. No, he wasn’t alone, Dwalin was here with him, but Dwalin was not here now. Dwalin... Dwalin was safe. He was safe with Dwalin, but Dwalin was not here now, but Dwalin was here somewhere, Dwalin was in their room and if he could reach it, he would be safe.

Thorin strode forwards determinedly, but was knocked off-balance and nearly went down onto his knees when one of the Men bumped into him roughly. They were speaking again, saying things to him, things about him, leering. Thorin did not hear, he did not understand, he was focused only on moving, on reaching the stairs on the other side of the street. Suddenly they seemed so far away. He was wading in quicksand, he was not moving and the Men were around him. He shoved one of him in the chest, then his path was clear and he was running. He had to reach Dwalin; Dwalin would keep him safe. Sweat was pouring from his brow and his heart was beating so loudly that he could not hear anything but the rushing of his own blood.

When he reached the stairs, the nausea returned with a vengeance. He was shaking; shaking so much that his legs could hardly support him any more. His knees buckled and he fell hard against the railing. He had to reach Dwalin. There were heavy steps behind him. He dragged himself up the stairs, desperately trying to reach the door to their room, the door behind which Dwalin slept. He could not see, the darkness was closing in on him, black spots crowding his vision. He had to get to Dwalin, he had to reach that door. He did, eventually; breathing hard and sweating like a hog. He fumbled with the handle, could not open it, his fingers would not cooperate; his hands were trembling too much. Frustrated he knocked his head against the door. Dwalin, Dwalin please... The wood creaked; somebody was on the stairs.

Suddenly, the wood in front of him shifted and then there was nothing. He fell forwards, watched the floor come closer with curious disinterest. Suddenly, there were hands on his shoulders, breaking his fall.

“Mahal’s beard, Thorin!”

He was vomiting, his stomach finally losing the impossible battle against the nausea. He was kneeling on the floor and vomiting, and then he finally gave in to the darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

The first night back in a real bed was always a treat. Thorin rolled his shoulders and stretched his legs, revelling in the softness of the mattress and the warmth of the duvet. Dwarves were tough, and he did not mind life on the road, but that did not mean he had no taste for a bit of comfort every now and again. He definitely slept better when he was in a bed. Light filtered through the window and he heard the grinding of Dwalin’s whetstone. He must have over-slept a little. Stretching his arms, Thorin yawned.

“Good morning, princess, finally decided to wake up, have you?”

“Shut it, Dwalin,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. When he opened them, the weak sunlight felt like a pair of daggers straight to his brain. Thorin shielded his eyes with his hand and groaned.

“Had a good night out, then, did you?” Dwalin asked in a much too cheerful voice. “Could have at least invited me to come along, you know.”

Had he? Had he been out last night? Well, he was certainly hung over now, so in all likelihood that indicated a night out, but why had he not been with Dwalin? Why would he get drunk in a strange town and not even take Dwalin with him? It made no sense. Thorin searched his memories for an account of the previous night, but his recollections were hazy.

“You were snoring,” he finally said. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a nightcap.”

Dwalin snorted. “And quite a nightcap that must have been.”

Thorin rubbed his forehead. “I only had one drink,” he said plaintively. His head was hurting something fierce and he would rather not have Dwalin tease him right now.

“Aye, right,” Dwalin said. He was actually guffawing now, the inconsiderate prick.

Thorin sat up and glared at him. “I did.”

He distinctly remembered thinking that he had could only have one because they needed to ride on the next morning. Well, it was the next morning now and he certainly did not feel like riding.

Dwalin regarded him critically, taking in what Thorin assumed was not a terribly impressive appearance right now. “If that was one drink, little Fíli really does have a higher tolerance for alcohol than you do.”

He distinctly remembered telling himself that he was only going to have one drink. Any more than that would not have made any sense, not alone, not in a strange town, not when they had many miles to cover the next day, not when he did not want to feel the way he was feeling right now. He had gone over to the pub to have a whisky. One whisky, just one. Had he? He did not remember... he did not recall having that whisky at all. He remembered Dwalin’s snores and he remembered walking down the staircase. He did not remember anything else.

Dwalin did, judging by his smirk.

“What happened?” Thorin asked.

“Excellent question,” Dwalin said, the humour obvious in his voice. “You show up here in the middle of the night, disturb my beauty sleep and spew all over my socks. I’d really like to know what happened!”

Thorin let his hair cover his face like a curtain, unwilling to look humiliation in the eye. “I didn’t...”

“Nah, I got my feet out of the way just in time, but blazing forges, Thorin, you were in a state.”

“I didn’t...”

“Cut it out, Thorin, I don’t mind if you want to get pissed, but wake me next time, it’s not safe on your own, especially not with all the gold you were carrying.”

That got through the haze in Thorin’s brain. “The gold...?” he asked.

“Judging by the weight of your coat it’s still there.”

He heard Dwalin get up and rifle through garments, then there was the clink of coins.

“Double-measure of whisky unless they have hiked up the prices since we last came this way,” Dwalin said, shoving the change back into Thorin’s purse. “Did somebody buy you drinks?”

They both knew it was unlikely. Thorin paid his own way, he had had to accept too much goodwill in their traveling days, and would not let some stranger pay for his drink now. Still he searched his memories for something, anything that might explain this wicked hangover. He might not have Dwalin’s boundless tolerance for alcohol, but he was long past the years when he might have crawled home to be sick.

“I don’t remember,” he finally had to admit. “I remember leaving the room and then... nothing... until I woke up here.”

He looked up at Dwalin apologetically. Dwalin frowned.

“I didn’t hear you leave, but you can’t have been more than an hour. I woke when I heard somebody mess with the door. You were lucky I didn’t put a knife between your ribs. You keeled over as soon as I opened the door, puked your guts out and were out like a light within a minute.”

“Did you notice anybody else outside?”

Dwalin stroked his beard pensively. “Naw,” he finally admitted. “There might have been some Men in the street, but I kind of had my hands full with you.”

Thorin groaned and continued to massage his forehead. Dwalin held out a flask of water and Thorin drank greedily. His breath could probably kill a dragon right now.

Dwalin regarded him critically.

“No idea what happened,” Thorin said, squeezing his eyes shut as his stomach churned at the thought of being sick. “Sorry mate.”

“Nae bother,” Dwalin grumbled. “You look a mess,” he supplied helpfully, resting a hand on Thorin’s shoulder and actually brushing a hand across his forehead as if he wanted to feel his temperature. Sometimes Dwalin was more of a mother hen than Dís. They sat in silence for a while, Thorin focused solely on the pounding in his head.

“Could somebody have put something into your drink?”

It took Thorin’s brain a few heartbeats to catch up with what Dwalin was suggesting. “You mean... poison?”

“Aye.”

“It was a busy pub,” Thorin said, desperately trying to recall the patrons. “I guess they could have...But... why?”

“Judging by the evidence whatever it was doesn’t kill you, although you look more than half dead right about now,” Dwalin said. “But you certainly weren’t much of an opponent last night.”

“Mahal’s beard,” Thorin cursed, realising the full gravity of the situation he had been in. “What do those thrice-damned Men want now?”

“They might have mistaken you for a dwarrowdam,” Dwalin said, trying to make light of the situation. “You’re just about pretty enough for someone who fancies an exotic, but compliant lay.”

Not that Men were not disgusting enough to do something like that, but somehow Thorin doubted that this was the correct explanation.

“If somebody really spiked my drink... They made me defenceless, they could have done anything to me if you hadn’t been there...” he mused. “Hammers and coals! The gold! I had half of the gold in my coat!”

“It’s all still here, nothing happened.”

“But it could have... Shame on my beard! Dwalin, I gambled with the lives of all of our people!”

“Aren’t you the dramatic one,” Dwalin grumbled, but he could not deny the truth in Thorin’s words. That gold was supposed to pay for their food for the coming winter, their insurance that for once nobody would die.

“I took a needless risk and our people might have paid for it,” Thorin insisted.

“Aye, and now you’re paying for it with a hangover straight from the deepest pits of Khazad-dûm. You won’t make that mistake again.”

“Who would do something like that?” Thorin mused. “How low do you have to sink to not even brave a fair fight?”

“Poison is a coward’s weapon,” Dwalin supplied.

“I wonder how they knew to attack me. It’s not like I carry my gold openly.”

“You were a stranger and alone, you were just an easy target,” Dwalin said. “They would have had quite the surprise if they had succeeded.”

Thorin wanted to believe that, wanted to believe that it was not a targeted attack, that he had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he could not shake the thought that it might have been more than that. There was a myriad of reasons why somebody might like to see him dead or harmed, and gold was among the least of those.

“What if they knew...?”

The rest of the question hung between them, unspoken. What if this had been more than an attempt to rob his money? What if they knew who he was and what he was planning? What if there were already powers moving to stop him?

**Author's Note:**

> Based as usual on excessive research, mainly medical literature on Rohypnol and GHB, so-called 'date-rape drugs', as well as some personal experience with having my drink spiked.


End file.
